


A Beauty (But A Beast)

by TheGoldenFiddle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Beauty and the Beast Elements, Lestrade as Lumierre, M/M, Mycroft as Cogsworth, Probably lots of spelling mistakes, kinda self-explanatory, my apologies, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-02-13 23:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2169966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoldenFiddle/pseuds/TheGoldenFiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was cursed at a young age, due to his inability to keep his deductions to himself. As a result, his brain-to-mouth filter is removed, and he has until age 21 to find someone who will love him despite his harsh words. If he doesn't, he will be cursed forever, and die alone. Sherlock thinks that no person in their right mind would ever fall in love with him...<br/>But John Watson will prove him wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Freak

Sherlock Holmes had never really been what was considered "normal."

He'd learned at a young age that others didn't particularly enjoy having their lives laid out for everyone to see. At the age of 6, after making a classmate cry when he stated that her parents weren't actually her parents, and that they were going to be divorcing soon, his parents and the headmaster of the school had a "talk." Mycroft, who sat outside the office with Sherlock (who still didn't understand what, exactly, he'd done wrong), had told his younger brother that he needed to mind the things he said. He told Sherlock that there was a delicate balance between being insightful, and prying, and that he needed to keep some of the facts he deduced to himself. And, since Mycroft was 13, and probably already knew everything there was to know, the young boy took his advice. 

It took him quite a while. The first time he tried to keep himself quiet after noticing something about the cook when he brought the Holmes' supper out, Sherlock had nearly gone blue in the face trying not to say anything. Of course, he blurted it out anyway, because holding his breath was becoming tiresome, not to mention making him lightheaded. Thus, the cook's habit of smoking marijuana while cooking was revealed, and he was fired, which Sherlock thought was a shame; he rather liked his apple pies. 

The next day, after remaining resolutely mute at school, Mycroft called Sherlock to the small study beside his bedroom, which the younger Holmes was very glad about, because he loved all the interesting details that his brother unknowingly left about. Mycroft, who had schoolwork to attend to and couldn't be too bothered with his sibling at the moment, opened a drawer in his desk and handed Sherlock a small notebook; "Sherlock's Deductions," it said across the top in Mycroft's neat handwriting. Sherlock had been ecstatic, grabbing the book and racing about the room, resulting in his brother very rudely kicking him out. Sherlock, with his messy 6-year-old penmanship, soon started carrying his gift everywhere. He'd write in it during the day, refusing to let anyone else so much as touch it, and at night, after supper, he'd give it back to Mycroft. It was always on his nightstand the next morning, with small comments and spelling corrections on every page. When he finally filled the last page, he ran to his brother's study, where another was waiting for him. Since he went through the books quite quickly, he began labeling the inside covers with dates, and the outside with chronological numbers. Soon the hidden cupboard in his wardrobe (which he made himself, thank you very much) was filled with the notebooks from Mycroft, all meticulously organized and in order. 

The years dragged on, and as Sherlock's handwriting got neater, and Mycroft schedule became busier, the number of corrections and comments in the books grew smaller and smaller. By the time Sherlock was 10, his brother was getting ready to attend some fancy boarding school, and would no longer have time to look over his sibling's deductions. Which was a bit problematic for Sherlock, considering that Mycroft was the only person he showed them too, and without anyone to see them he'd probably begin blurting again. But his older brother had sadly shaken his head, and told Sherlock that he would have to deal with noone being able to see his brilliant (and occasionally rude) comments. The younger finally conceded, albeit reluctantly, and stopped showing his brother his notebooks. 

It was this turn of events, perhaps, that caused things to turn out the way they did. 

It was nearing April, and a terrible storm thundered across the country. Sherlock had been picking at the food on his plate, pushing it aroun but not really eating anything. His current deduction notebook was in his bedroom, as Mummy had said a year ago that he could no longer bring it to the table. The lights flickered occasionally, causing Sherlock's mother to look around uncertainly, but the boy himself had always enjoyed storms, mostly because of the scientific aspects of it. Thunder boomed, shaking the plates on the table, and the lighting that flashed illuminated the room, allowing Sherlock to fully see what lay in the room's corners. As the storm raged on, the youngest Holmes finished his supper, preparing to make his way upstairs to write down his newest observations. He paused at the base of the steps, listening intently to the thunder, when he heard it; a hard banging on the door from the outside. Thinking perhaps it was one of his new friends (because since he no longer deduced them out loud, the other children quite liked him), Sherlock raced to the door and flung it open, disappointed to see, not a fellow classmate, but an old woman dressed in rags. 

He knew then that he should have turned and run up the stairs, to his notebook, because there was just so much information to be collected from the woman in front of him. He knew that if he made it to his book, he wouldn't get in trouble, he wouldn't make a fool of himself, and Mycroft would possibly be proud of him for showing restraint. But it had been such a long time since he'd made a proper deduction out loud, and the words flew out of his mouth like a jet before he could stop them. 

"You live on the streets. You used to be a seamstress, going by the fact that the stitches used to keep your clothing together are well done in theory, but the thread is very cheap and wears out easy. That suggests that you've been out on the road for a while, you've run out of all of your quality supplies. The fact you live on the streets at all implies that you've come across hard times, most likely your husband's death. You've a tan line on your finger, from a ring you no longer wear, but you've got the ring on a chain around your neck; I can see the bulge. You come from an old fashioned family, because this is a tradition that is not commonly used anymore." He paused, not even thinking straight as his mind plowed on through what it was seeing. "You're not from around this area, which is why you've stopped at the first house you came to instead of looking for an inn, because they would turn you off straight away. You've come to ask for a place to stay until the storm lets up, but my mother will refuse, as she doesn't allow strangers in the house, especially not ones that look like..." He trailed off, finally realizing that he'd messed up again and may have said something offensive. 

He refused to back down though; if he was going to mess up after all these years, he was going to do it properly. "Did I- did I get it all right?" He stared at the old woman, as she finally raised her head, greeting him with eyes of pure silver. 

"All wrong, actually," she responded, her voice with a slight Irish accent and a musical lilt. Then her rags fell away, and her face shifted, changing drastically, wrinkles and bags melting away to smooth and flawless skin. She now wore a dress of silver and gold, and a pair of iridescent wings came out behind her, raising her up a mere few inches, but enough that she now loomed over the young boy. She stared at him for a moment, and he briefly wondered if this was what being deduced felt like. "Sherlock Holmes," she stated, her voice quiet, but echoing over the thunder that sounded. She reached a pale hand out to run across his jawline. "You are quite a beautiful child."

Sherlock had heard this before. Adults were constantly commenting on how when he grew up he'd be quite handsome, and girls chased him on the playground quite frequently. When he looked in the mirror, all he saw was a mess of raven curls atop his head, cheekbones that were too prominent, eyelashes that belonged to a girl. He didnt see himself as beautiful, or handsome like he thought Mycroft was. He looked like his mother (who was beautiful, of course, but a woman), but he had his father's eyes; that odd mix of blue and green and silver that confused him to no end. But he personally didnt think his combination of genes was all that appealing. 

The erethal woman in front of him continued to speak. "Beautiful," she repeated, "but cold and rude to everyone that is not family."

"No I'm not," Sherlock petulantly interjected, resentful of the woman's words. "I never say anything to anyone, this was one time-"

She shook her head with a smile. "Ah, but that's not true, is it? What about all of your notebooks, hm? Book after book, page after page of mean, cruel deductions. If you hadn't spoken yours to me, you'd have written them down, and that would do nothing to help you grow better, to help you learn to keep harsh words to yourself, not even to a book." She watched him, and Sherlock fought the urge to back away, to call for his family to come help him, because surely this was his imagination. Her silver eyes burned into him and oh how he wanted to run, but he was transfixed at the display in front of him. 

She waved her hand in the air, and a single rose appeared, one with many beautiful petals in the deepest shade of red. She kept it suspended in the air as she then waved her hand atop his head, and he scowled at her. "Sherlock Holmes, you have been cursed. I have seen your heart, and it holds no love apart from blood. You are no longer able to write your deductions down, and the filter between your thoughts and your mouth has been removed. You will speak the truth of your mind to those around you, and they will grow to resent you and your harsh words. You must find someone who can love you in this way, and you must love them in return." she shifted her hand, and the rose floated toward him. "The final petal will fall at midnight on your 21st birthday. If you've not found love by then, you will remain this way forever, and no relationships will last, be they professional or otherwise. Learn well, young child, or your life will be a miserable one, and you will die alone." As Sherlock finally took the glowing rose into his hands, the woman backed away slowly, glowing brightly then fading all at once, and then she was gone. 

Sherlock, still a bit confused at the whole thing (but not believing a bit of it, despite the clear evidence), came back into the house, staring down at the faintly glowing rose in his hands. Looking so intently at the flower, he didnt realize he'd walked into the part-time gardener until it was too late. "Sorry there, young man," he started, clearly in a rush to get home, and Sherlock's eyes were already scanning his body and clothes, deductions forming at once. "Didn't see you th-"

"You think your wife is having an affair, so you're cheating on her as well. A bit petty, don't you think?" He mentally slapped himself as the man's eyes went wide, then narrowed, and rushed out. Sherlock rushed up the stairs, intent on writing the newest discovery down. But when he reached into his cupboard for his book...

Gone. All of them were gone. 

Sherlock reeled backwards, careful not to crush the rose he now held gently in his hands. It was real after all. 

The gardener quit the next day. 

When Sherlock returned to school, his filter was still gone. All the friends he had made since he'd starting keeping his notebooks at age 6 were now avoiding him, as he'd once again deduced them all within moments of seeing them. They began to pick on him, call him names, poke him with sticks. He learned to stop showing that he cared what they said. One day he retaliated; he punched Victor in the face after one to many prods with a thin branch. Victor had told, of course, and since his father was a member of the school board, Sherlock was expelled. His mother hired tutors, but none of them lasted long, because they all were fuming mad at him within minutes. He learned though, albeit very little as his mind deleted that which he deemed unimportant. 

Some time passed and eventually, Mycroft came home, now 18; aware of how much trouble his little brother had caused but not knowing how much it was affecting Sherlock. The younger Holmes only had to look at his older brother to know he was disappointed, and that filled him with sadness and regret as he knew what would come out of his own mouth next. 

"You're upset with me because I've been causing trouble," he stated flatly, not bothering to try sounding confident like he usually did. "You're trying to diet, as you think you've gone a bit soft around the middle, but you ate a few biscuits on the way over here. You're wondering-" Sherlock's voice broke as he finished his deduction. "You're wondering where you went wrong with me." Sudden anger flared up in him, making the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end as he glared at his elder brother. "God, this is all your fault!" He shouted, taking off up the stairs as fast as he could. He didn't talk to Mycroft for a very long time. 

When he turned 15, he started using drugs. Cocaine was nice; it made his head slow down, made people more likely to forgive his cruel deductions since they knew he was high. He had stopped trying to get people to understand. He'd declared himself a sociopath at age 13, even though rude remarks and Mycroft sad stares did affect him. But he didn't let it show, and he let the drugs do their jobs. 

He overdosed at 16, on accident, and an inspector named Something-Lestrade had found him in a back alleyway. He took Sherlock to a hospital, and got ahold of the elder Holmes. When Mycroft arrived, Sherlock was awake, but still a bit high, and he accidentally told his brother about that night during the storm; how the woman had cursed him and given him the magic flower, and that was why he couldn't help himself from pointing out that Mycroft's suit looked a bit tight. His brother thought he was joking, until Sherlock awoke the next morning and said it all again, completely sober. 

When he got out of the hospital, he showed Mycroft the flower, which he now kept in his hidden cupboard, where all his notebooks had once been. Upon seeing the glowing rose, Mycroft believed him. He then proceeded to tell Sherlock that, if he kept sober, he'd help find someone to break the curse. The younger agreed, but demanded that he be given something else to occupy his time and mind. Mycroft, in turn, called Lestrade, who agreed to let Sherlock work on a few cold cases. 

Going to New Scotland Yard was alright. The cases he was given were ridiculously easy to figure out. Before long he'd met a few other around the office, namely Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson. After he'd correctly deduced their relationship, and their pasts, and the fact that they often snuck off into a supply closer during work, they hated him, calling him names like his elementary friends once had. 

Freak. 

Loser. 

He agreed with them, of course. He wasn't normal. But the words still hurt, because they were true. Sherlock was rude and cruel, and mean in so many ways, a monster in society known for his cutting words and sharp tongue. He'd never find someone to break the curse...

Because who could ever love such a beast?


	2. Civilian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of background on everybody's favorite John Watson, and the long awaited First Meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus H. Christ. This took so much longer to complete than it should have. I am so so so sorry for the ridiculously long wait for this second chapter. I sincerely hope you're not all disappointed.

John Watson was thought of as fairly normal in the town where he grew up. 

John had learned early on that he had a love for danger, for adrenaline that most people didn't understand. He'd jumped off the diving board at the pool before he could swim properly just on a dare, hands perfectly steady as he scaled the ladder and leaped into the water below. He'd punched a kid in elementary school because the boy was pulling a girl's hair, and John had told him several times to stop. The encounter had lasted all of 45 seconds, and resulted in a black eye, a 3 day suspension, and a tall girl with pigtails following him around until the seventh grade. At 7 years old, he climbed higher than Harry in the tree in their back yard, elevated by a good 12 branches. That made the fall down that much worse, but he was able to get a cool blue cast out of it, so he didn't mind too much.

Sitting in the waiting room at the A&E that day, his father asked what on earth would've possessed him to climb so high in the tree, where noone would be able to reach him, and John just said he'd wanted to be brave. That was when his father taught him the Golden Rule; there was a fine line between being brave and being stupid. Charging head first into a situation without thinking about the consequences, how it would affect the people around you, stupid. John struggled for a while to keep this in mind, but eventually was able to have it ready on hand whenever he was faced with a difficult situation. 

While he'd never been short of friends as he got older, he always preferred studying to hanging out in parks. He particularly enjoyed reading, books of all kinds, especially fantasy. He absolutely loved the Harry Potter series, as well as the Hobbit; Tolkien was his idol. Often when teachers went searching for him he was in the library, surrounded by literary monsters and magic. He also played on the school rugby team when he got older, but he was a quiet boy, and didn't talk loudly or often around people he didn't know, though he was always kind. He constantly found himself surrounded by a crowd of girls, sometimes guys too, and John appreciated the attention from both sexes. His guy friends always told him that girls really liked the "strong and silent" type, and that they aspired to be more like him; John told them to shove off.

He and Harry had been very close at one point; their parents didn't really approve of his sister's partiality to girls, so she confided in him and he confessed to her early on about being bisexual. They had a nice relationship for a long time because of how easy it was to talk to each other, to not have to hide anything, because so many aspects of their lives were similar. John always told Harry how he wanted something more out of his life. "I can't stay in the outskirts of England forever," he'd tell her as they lay on the roof naming constellations. "I want so much more out of my life." And his sister understood, the feeling of wanting something better out of life. That changed when Harry turned 18 though, and started to drink. She always told John at first that it was just a bit of fun; a shot here, a beer there. Until a shot of whiskey turned into a tumbler full and one beer became 6 and 7. The excuses went from being "it's harmless" to "mind your own business John" as the siblings spoke to each other progressively less often. Harry got married when she turned 20, leaving the house- and John- behind, telling him to call if he ever needed help. 

He never did. 

Going into high school, he knew that he wanted to be a doctor; a surgeon, preferably, because they made more money, but helping in any way would suit him just fine. So he took all the classes he needed, Biology and Anatomy and the like, and always studied hard. He wasn't the smartest kid in the school, but he did alright by himself.

He made good friends with Mike Stamford, who was going into medicine as well, but educational. They spent a lot of their time together, studying, going over flash cards, even just talking about rugby over tea, to which John addicted and Mike was quickly being converted. John didn't really have much of a social life in high school; not that he didn't receive many invitations to parties and gatherings and such, he just never wanted to go. He knew to be a doctor required the utmost of focus and concentration, and if he couldn't even get through high school without being distracted by this thing or that, what kind of doctor would he be? So he spent his days and evenings with Mike Stamford, a textbook between, and usually a cup of cold tea to his left. 

They graduated together, not at the top of their class but certainly not the bottom either. They both immediately applied to St. Bart's hospital, to study medicine there, and they were both accepted. They drifted apart soon after; Mike was taking additional classes at another college for his education degree, and John found himself buried with a whole new arsenal of things he needed to learn, to know. He continued to receive invitations to a multitude of activities, but he always declined. He was there on a scholarship, because he had earned decent grades in high school, and his parents had never really had an excess of money, and he never really had time to mess around or hang out with friends anyway.

He had a side job, working at the library in all of his spare time, where he shelved books and categorized a number of different items. What little money he had left over that wasn't spent on necessities and saving for his next year at college, went into keeping a dingy flat in London, about a half hour's walk from Bart's, and the place was awful; constantly cold, crappy water pressure, stereotypes of a shady American motel. But it was all he could afford at the time, and he didn't want to ask Harry for help. 

After his second year at Bart's, his scholarship had expired, so after summer break he started having to use his own funds to pay for the thing he needed. But between his supplies, textbooks, and crappy flat he fell short. He dropped out of Bart's halfway through the first semester of his third year, in order to avoid having a monstrous debt hanging over his head, and started working full time at the library. He had a plan to save up more money and go back to school to earn his degree, and knew it would take a while, but he had just turned 21 and he had time. 

Working in the library one day, he'd left a random television program on as background noise, and heard an advertisement about supporting local troops, and suddenly he was given an answer. He would join the army; then he could finish his schooling, and it would be paid for, he wouldn't have to worry about his flat or his sister, and he'd be out of London. He'd finally be able to go somewhere new, somewhere exciting, different, just like he'd always wanted to. He told the manager at the library of his idea, and the old man approved entirely, supported John's decision and told him if he ever changed his mind, his position would still be waiting for him.

The very next day, John went and got the information he needed. By the end of the week, he had all of the paperwork filled out and ready to go, and had a near permanent smile etched onto his face. He received his confirmation letter 3 days later, and it was official; John Watson was going to war. He went to a place out of time that offered military training for those joining, and he learned all the skills he'd need when he finally got to battle; shooting, hiding, strategy. He knew he'd be ready when he finally got to Afghanistan. 

Except that that didn't happen. 

It came out of nowhere. One moment, he was walking down a street, turning into an ally to make a shortcut when he was suddenly hit with harsh, sickening pain in his left shoulder. He let out a surprised sort of scream and dropped to the ground, just making out the figure of a man holding a gun running off, quickly replaced by a taller man standing in his place. John thought through his pain that the stranger had a striking silhouette; tall, lean, a clearly definable mop of curly hair atop his head. But he was taken off that train of thought when a civilian stopped beside him and called an ambulance, and John was able to give him instructions on keeping the bleeding down. 

Thanks to the man who'd helped him, a tourist from Canada, John didn't die. He got a nasty infection in his shoulder though, from the cold London air, but that was apparently unavoidable. He spent a month in the hospital, visited by a multitude of people he didn't know, as well as his sister, who gave him a phone with a stony look on her face before leaving. There was then an additional month and a half of daily physical therapy, where he was made to work his shoulder and arm on his left side to ensure mobility. 

He did have to cancel his plans to join the military though, at least for this year. While he was hospitalized, the openings for enlistment had closed up, and wouldn't be available again until the next fall. So John decided to go back to work at the library, to earn up a little more money and save for a hopefully better flat than the one he was currently in. Eventually he realized he wouldn't be able to continue living in London, because the cost was just too much; he'd never be able to afford someplace nicer. So he made up his mind to look for a flat out of London, and with that in mind went for a walk. 

He was walking past Regent's park when he heard a gasp to his left. "John?" John turned his head just a little, not really recognizing the man addressing him. "John Watson?" There was something familiar about his voice, and the shape of the man's face, but his confusion was settled when the stranger pointed to himself and said, "Mike, Mike Stamford!"

"Oh," John stated, feeling stupid for not realizing sooner. "Sorry mate, didn't recognize you."

Mike shrugged. "Eh, got fat."

John laughed. "No, no you look good. I've just had a long day."

"You look it," the other man stated. "What's been going on? I heard you were going abroad to get shot at. What happened?"

John couldn't help but smile wistfully. "Didn't even make it out of England and I got shot." Mike raised his eyebrows, a clear invitation to continue, so John cleared his throat and began his story. He and Mike continued to talk for a good hour, until finally the topic of address came up. 

"I can't stay in London," he confessed, "it's way too expensive for me, especially with the only income being from the library."

"Can't you get a flatshare?" Mike asked, face twisted in a way that suggested he was thinking about something. 

John looked at him sideways. "Come on Mike, you know me. Who'd want me for a flatmate?" When his old friend smiled at him oddly, he proceeded with an indignant, "what?"

"Nothing," Mike started, "it's just that you're the second person to say that to me today."

John raised his eyebrows. "Who was the first?" 

This led them into a cab, on their way to St. Bart's, where Mike was now a teacher, to meet the other person Mike had discussed flatshares with. Mike was being strangely cryptic, not explaining much about the mystery man they were going to see. John tried asking a variety of different questions, but Stamford said nothing. They finally arrived, Mike stopping to say hello to a young woman with mousey brown hair passing them briefly. They arrived at the lab, and John immediately noticed the subtle changes that had been made since he dropped out.

"Looks a bit different from the last time I was here," he said, eyes roving the room as Mike took a seat and finally settling on a young man perched on a stool in front of a microscope, and he felt he'd have recognized that head of dark hair anywhere. "Christ!" He exclaimed, making the man jerk in surprise where he sat. "You're that man who was chasing the guy with the gun by the ally!"

The taller person raised his eyebrows slightly, eyes tracing over John before he spoke. "You're the civilian that was shot. That was mostly my fault, my apologies" he stated calmly, John staring at him incredulously. "You were planning on going into the army, to pay for the rest of your education here, which you stopped about 3 months ago due to lack of funds. But getting shot obviously put a damper on that, as being in the hospital would've made it difficult to go into war. You can't afford to live in London any longer, as you come from a poor background, and you've spoken to Mike about needing a flatshare." He finished with a nod to John, who stared at him. He was about to make a retort when the stranger continued with an unexpected, "you're quite attractive," making the room fall into an uncomfortable silence as John's jaw dropped and the other man looked just as surprised. 

Mike Stamford leaned back in his chair and smiled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Mike Stamford ships Johnlock. Of course.  
> My apologies on the (sort of?) cliffhanger. I will update more often. Sailor's promise.  
> Hope you enjoyed :)


	3. Interference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter, Greg Lestrade!  
> Mutual awkwardness all around but it's all good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter feels like, super short. Hope it's not too bad.  
> Things will be picking up soon, I promise!  
> Chapter is dedicated to Ally, who I promised this chapter to way back at Christmas. My apologies for the severe lateness. You go girl ^.^

Silence hung in the air as Sherlock waited for the other man to say something, his own mouth not moving because his mind had been wiped completely blank at that last statement. _You’re quite attractive_? That had been entirely unexpected. He usually knew what was going to come out when he started speaking but he’d been unprepared for that particular phrase. It wasn’t even a deduction! The man Mike had brought in looked like he was in shock, his mouth hanging open the slightest bit as he stared at the detective. Mike himself was smiling, looking rather pleased with himself, and Sherlock briefly had time to wonder what he was so smug about when his friend spoke.

“Um,” he started out, a faint blush spreading up his cheeks to his ears, staining them pink. “Thank you, I guess.” He coughed awkwardly, shuffling his feet a bit, glancing around the room, at Mike, and occasionally letting his eyes dart to Sherlock before they flitted away again.

It took a moment but Sherlock got it. “Oh! You’re waiting for me to talk again. Right. Yes.” He didn’t understand why he felt so strange. Perhaps it was the weather. “Right. Um.” He paused, looking to Mike as a sort of lifeline. “Mike. I need your phone. Mine doesn't get service here. And,” he added when Mike opened his mouth,” before you start spouting nonsense about using the telephone, I will once again repeat that I prefer to text.” He glanced again at the man on the other side of the room.

“Sorry,” Mike said slowly, patting down his jacket. “Haven’t got mine on me.” He was lying. Sherlock knew he was lying, could see the shape of his phone in his breast pocket, and was about to comment when the would-be army doctor spoke up.

“Here, use mine. If you’d like.”

Sherlock stood quietly for a moment, before reaching across to take it from him. “Thank you.” He took notice of he scuff marks around the power plug-in, feeling the engraving on the back with his fingers before he pressed the button to turn it on. He quickly sent a text to Lestrade ( _If brother had green ladder arrest brother. -SH_ ) before returning the phone to the stranger, purposely avoiding letting their fingers make contact. The engraving on the back had said _To Harry, xoxo Clara_ , which hinted at a wife but that clearly wasn’t this man. He didn’t have the look of an alcoholic and there was no ring on his finger, so this was clearly a present, most likely from a brother. Once again, he opened his mouth to speak but was cut off.

“John Watson,” Mike said, still looking far too pleased with the situation. “Friend of mine, in case you were wondering, since you didn't ask his name.”

The other man, John, sputtered. “Mike! Jeez, it’s fine,” he said, turning to Sherlock, “don’t worry about it.” He looked a bit uncomfortable.

“He’s right,” Sherlock interjected. “It was rather rude not to ask your name, I apologize.” He gave a small smile, which John returned. Sherlock suddenly felt like he needed to leave, immediately, or he’d make a fool of himself. “Right then. Flatshares. I’ve got my eye on a nice flat in central London. The landlady knows me, likes me quite a bit, might I add, I remind her of her grandson. She also owes me a favor, so the rent is rather cheaper than it would normally be, so together we should be able to afford it.” He stood, gathering his coat into his arms and wrapping his scarf rather haphazardly around his neck as he made his way to the door, giving Mike’s friend a wide berth. “We can go take a look at it tomorrow, if you’re amandable. I’ve got to run for now, but I’ll meet you there around 10.”

"Hold on a second," John interrupted, making Sherlock pause. "That's it? We've just met and we're going to look at a flat together?"

"Yes. Problem?"

John laughed. "A bit. I don't know anything about you, I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name." He watched Sherlock expectantly, waiting for an answer.

Sherlock continued to the door, opening it before turning to look at John. "I play the violin and sometimes I don't talk for days. I can be exceedingly rude and obnoxious, and I always speak what's on my mind in regards to people. I know you have an alcoholic brother that you don't get along with, which is why you need a flatshare." He watched John's face flit through a series of emotions before settling on shock. The detective smirked.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street." On an impulse, he winked, before closing the door behind him. Leaning heavily on it for a moment, he clearly heard Mike inside say "yeah, he's always like that."

Sherlock hurried away, wondering why on earth he had winked. Who winks at strangers? Certainly not Sherlock Holmes under normal circumstances, but these clearly were not. Something about John Watson made Sherlock act strangely and he resolved to make it stop. He was broken out of his thoughts as he hailed a taxi by a buzzing in his pocket. As he climbed inside the yellow car, he pulled out his phone, groaning to himself as he saw Mycroft's name. He opened it to find a text.

_Are you trying at all to solve this problem? -MH_

Sherlock sighed heavily, responding quickly before shutting his phone off.

_No, I'm not. Boring. No point. Shove off. -SH_

He gave the cabbie the address of New Scotland Yard, and rode in silence across London. He sent a quick text to Mike Stamford on the drive.

_Just what, pray tell, are you planning? -SH_

A few minutes later, he got a strange response.

_Not a thing! Hope you and John get along. -Mike_

He closed his phone, staring at the window and letting his thoughts flitter wherever they desired. 

Mike didn't know about the curse, but the way he was constantly trying to set Sherlock up with various friends and colleagues sometimes made the detective suspect. This one though, this John, was interesting. He hadn't run screaming anyway, which was better than most people, and Sherlock hadn't been punched. He was rather glad for that; John had looked rather strong, and a hit from him likely would've put Sherlock on his back. 

He was sick of the interferences. He knew there was no way he could lift the curse by the time he turned 21. His birthday was just short of a year away, and he had no desire to find someone tolerable. He did regret that failure to lift the curse would result in losing Lestrade as an almost friend, but he supposed it couldn't be helped. Mycroft was particularly annoying about it all, wanting the curse gone so that Sherlock could improve his reputation and establish connection, much like the elder himself did. But Sherlock could really care less about business and relationships. 

Really. 

When he arrived at his destination, he entered slowly, looking up when Greg Lestrade called his name in a cheerful manner. "Sherlock! Just who I was looking for. Thanks on that last case mate, we would've never even suspected about the green ladder."

"That's because you're all idiots," Sherlock retorted. "Honestly, why do you even pay Anderson? He doesn't do his job correctly."

Lestrade chuckled. "He does do his job right. You just enjoy torturing him because he's not as clever as you." He picked up a cup of coffee that was on the counter next to him, taking a sip before continuing. "Seriously though. How did you know about the ladder?"

Sherlock scoffed. "There were microscopic specks of green aluminum in the victims blood. It was obvious." He looked past Lestrade, seeing Anderson coming towards them, and when he walked by the detective resisted the urge to stick out his tongue. He allowed his senses to sweep over the other man quickly, taking note of anything he could use against him. "I hope you know he and Donovan have been shagging in the supply closet again. Granted, they've gotten a little smarter, not using the one right near your office, but they're still doing it." When Greg groaned, Sherlock ended with, "whichever closet has baby powder in it. Lock it every day and watch how angry they get."

Greg laughed again. "You're really something, Sherlock." He paused for a moment, inspecting Sherlock closely before he started on a subject he'd clearly been thinking about. "How's it going with... You know... The curse?" He'd lowered his voice for this part, glancing around to make sure no one heard.

Mycroft had told Lestrade about Sherlock. After Sherlock's continuous verbal assault on his officers, it was a necessary step; Sherlock needed to stop, or he was off, no matter how clever he was. Mycroft explained the situation, and the British government and the DI had developed a sort of friendship, constantly plotting to help Sherlock break the curse. But he didn't need their help.

Sherlock shook his head. "Mycroft put you up to this. Obvious. But like I told him, there's no point. There's no way to lift it in time, so I've given up. Shove off." He turned on his heel to leave, but Greg stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"That's your problem, Sherlock. You shut people off. You even do it to me, and we're at least sort of friends. I hope anyway. But even if you wanted to, how could you find someone to lift the curse if you can't stand to be around anybody and they can't stand you?"

Sherlock shook his hand off, turning to face him again. "I don't want to find someone to lift the curse, because there's no use. And for your information, there are people I can stand to be around. Not many but there are some. In fact," he paused, wondering whether this was a good idea or not. "I may have a flatmate soon. The man, John Watson. He seems... Tolerant of my behavior at the very least."

Greg's eyes widened. "You're joking! Did you just not speak to him at all? It seems impossible, most people you talk to want to kill you and this one wants to move right in?"

Sherlock gave the man a small smile. "I'm still asking myself the same thing." He turned away again, walking towards the exit. "Got to run," he called over his shoulder. "Got a flat to set up. Let me know if there's anything interesting. And, don't tell Mycroft about the flatmate."

He exited the building, leaving Lestrade behind him, hailing another taxi and giving the cabbie the address 221B. He had a few boxes to unpack. He knew for sure that John Watson would be there tomorrow. He didn't know why, but he knew he would.

~~~~~~~~~~

Lestrade watched Sherlock leave NSY, before pulling his phone out of his pocket. It may have been directly against the tall man's wishes, but Mycroft needed to know about this. He found the elder Holmes number and called him, only having to wait a few moments for him to answer.

"Detective Inspector. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Greg hesitated a moment. "It's about Sherlock." At the sharp intake of breath, he included, "no no! It's nothing bad. I promise. It's about the curse." He kept his voice down, walking slowly to the side exit for more privacy.

"I doubt he's found someone. He said he was giving up, and Sherlock is nothing if not stubborn."

Mycroft was definitely the pessimist of the two. While he hoped beyond hope that the curse would be broken, he didn't think it ever would be. Greg balanced him out though, meeting his negative views with his own more positive ones. "It sounds promising, actually. New flatmate. He can actually deal with Sherlock." He paused a second, a shift in the corner of his eye notifying him of the movement of a CCTV camera. "Stop that, it's creepy."

"My apologies, Gregory. What did you say this man's name was?"

"John Watson, I think," Greg responded without thinking, then realizing what he'd done. "You're not going to search him are you?"

"......"

Greg sighed. "Mycroft..."

"Necessary precaution, Detective Inspector. If you'll excuse me, I have an important matter to look into." There was a moments pause, then... "Pleasure as always, Gregory."

Lestrade smiled. "Same to you, Myc. Try not to scare him too bad." The line clicked off.

He hoped John Watson wasn't easily intimidated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed, and stay tuned!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! This is my first Sherlock fanfiction, and I really hope you all enjoy it! Feedback would be nice, but its not necessary :)


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